Colors: You're The Cream In My Coffee
by Liv Wilder
Summary: Fluffy S6 one-shot. "This shirt with this skirt?" you snort, turning from side-to-side in front of the long mirror to get a better view of yourself. "Come on, Castle. You're a writer. Where's your originality?" "What?" he exclaims, laughing. "What's wrong with it? A little Angelina Jolie meets Dita von Teese never hurt anyone." COMPLETE


_A/N: A little fluffy one-shot. Set sometime in Season 6._

* * *

_**You're The Cream in My Coffee**_

He steps back to admire you, one hand on his chin, the other bracing his elbow. Like a connoisseur in a museum appraising a piece of art, his eyes lick hungrily up and down your body, taking in every tiny little detail, lingering here and there when he finds something he particularly likes.

"This shirt with this skirt?" you snort, turning from side-to-side in front of the long mirror to get a better view of yourself. "Come on, Castle. You're a writer. Where's your originality?"

"_What?_" he exclaims, laughing. "What's wrong with it? A little Angelina Jolie meets Dita von Teese never hurt anyone."

"More like Jessica Rabbit meets Betty Boop," you mutter. "Seriously. I'm not wearing this," you shake your head, chuckling when he makes goo-goo eyes at you while you pluck at the sheer, cream fabric, with its plunging neckline, bare arms and filmy window onto your lingerie of choice. "I look like a walking cliche."

Altogether, the outfit is like something from a French bedroom farce - with you cast as the slutty secretary. Sure it highlights your curves more than usual, the black pencil skirt with the thigh-high split clinging to your rear in a way that you can see would instantly appeal to your lover, or any red-blooded male for that matter. The tight-fitting silhouette draws the eye to your waist where the sheer blouse flows out above.

"Then we're back to the dress, I'm afraid. You promised, Kate. It's my turn," Castle gleefully reminds you.

"Why did I ever think letting you dress me was a good idea?" you ask, pressing your lips together and slowly shaking your head at him.

"Because I have great taste and an amazing sense of style, Beckett. I mean just look at my mother. It's clearly genetic. She's practically a fashionista, and at her age…neon paisley prints are hard to pull off."

"Paisley prints of any description belong on those quilted totes they sell in seaside towns up around Maine. Fine, hand me the dress," you sigh, sticking your tongue out and taking the coffee-colored shift he eagerly thrusts in your direction.

"They have nude heels that would look great with this, I'm going to get your size," he says, his voice already receding across the floor of the boutique as he hot foots it to the ladies shoe department.

* * *

You're feeling clammy inside the changing cubicle, a little light-headed. The clothes you've rejected so far are hanging on the left hand side of the changing area, the 'possibles' on the right - a far smaller number of hangers by far. You stand back and look at the few items you've set aside as potential winners. There's a common theme, and it's not exactly running to your usual taste.

You like structure in your jackets, long, slim lines in your pants and jeans, height in your heels and either soft sweaters, or crisp shirts for work in the main. At home it's yoga pants and worn tee shirts, or more recently, Castle's worn tee shirts. You smile to yourself, remembering the look on his face when he chased you to bed last night, how he undressed you while you squirmed on the bed beneath him, his hands like octopus tentacles - everywhere at once - when he claimed his Green Lantern tee back and stripped you naked in the process.

You turn to look in the mirror again. Yeah, something is definitely off today.

* * *

"I come bearing Manolos," you hear Castle sing through the dressing room curtain, and you sigh, shimmying your body into the silk shift, wriggling to pulling it down over your hips.

You poke your head around the curtain and then thrust out a hand.

"_Fine_," you sigh, giving in for an easy life and your partner's pleasure. "Give me the shoes."

Castle's not for letting you disappear again - never keen to entertain himself for long when you're around - so he pulls the curtain back, taking your elbow to help you balance as you drop the shoes onto the floor and then hop on one leg to put the first one on.

The shoes _are_ gorgeous – a café-crème colored pair of buttery soft, patent leather stilettos with a sharply pointed toe and a cutaway design that displays the high curve of your arch. They remind you of Gina Lollobrigida, of a shoe the film star might have worn back in glamorous '60's Italy as she flew down a winding clifftop road somewhere along the Amalfi coast, a scarf covering her hair, enormous dark sunglasses, and the top down on a flame red Alpha Romeo Spider. The heel height contracts your calf muscles, leaving them sculpted, tan and tight. Yep, the man definitely has an eye, you have to give him that.

"Wow! You look…" says Castle, whistling his appreciation and standing back to give you another long, lingering once over. "Your ass and that dress? Match made in heaven. And that neckline gives you _the_ most amazing cleavage. Not that you don't always have a great… Okay, shutting up now," he says, performing a little lip-lock gesture when you narrow your eyes at him.

* * *

You can't remember when you began this little game – dressing one another on shopping trips when you have an event coming up - taking turn about as to who gets to do the choosing. It might have been the day Castle showed up in that hideous orange jumpsuit when you went hunting for Bigfoot. Yes, that was it. You were embarrassed the birds and the bees could see you that day. In fact, astronauts on the International Space Station could probably have spotted your boyfriend from 210 miles above the earth. So, you took him shopping that weekend, and out went the aging, boxy, safari style jackets and anything that could properly be construed as 'dress-up' gear, and in came the softest brown leather coat to replace the one he gave away to Slaughter when he acted like a jerk, switched partners, together with a black leather biker jacket he could wear riding on the back of your Harley Softail. Happy times.

And now it's your turn.

"When is this benefit again?" you ask, turning side on to look at your profile in the long mirror. "Remind me."

"A week's time."

"And you're sure this isn't too much?"

"It's a the Natural History Museum, Kate. You could wear floor-length Valentino and fit right in. Actually, that's a thought," he says, rubbing his chin, instantly in plotting mode.

"No! No, absolutely not. You promised – no couture."

"No. _You_ said no couture. I don't remember agreeing to any such thing."

"Well, you'd better start agreeing pretty fast, Mister, or this dress is coming off and we are going home with nothing."

"Someone's a little grouchy this morning. I knew I shouldn't have dragged you out shopping before your first caffeine hit. Need a little relaxation?" he whispers, putting his hands on your waist and slipping inside the changing room with you.

He walks you backwards out of sight, his lips already on your neck before you get a chance to stop him.

You moan without thinking, your head moving aside involuntarily when his lips connect with your skin, brushing just so over your pulse point, as Castle fingers lightly sweep your hair aside so he can get even closer.

"Wrinkles," you protest, when you come to your senses, easing yourself out from under his grinning mouth to straighten the dress.

"Professional garment steamer," he counters, coming back for a second go at your neck. "That's why we bought it, remember?"

"What?" you laugh, trying to grab hold of his hands to stop the groping that's going on somewhere in back, where he's slowly inching the hem of the dress up your thighs. "So you could maul me in a boutique dressing room?"

"No. So we could have sex with our clothes on and…" he grins, murmuring the words again your flaming cheek.

"Castle," you hiss, catching a glimpse of the boutique owner hovering discreetly a few feet away, trying to peer in your direction. "We're being watched."

"Mmm, voyeurism," he murmurs, cupping your ass and giving it a squeeze. "I like."

"Rick!" you exclaim, disentangling yourself from Mr. Octopus arms more forcefully this time.

"So grouchy today, and yet you slept for _hours_ last night," he points out, grumbling when he finally accepts that he has to let you go.

He's right. You did. You went to bed at 9.30pm, which is almost unheard of, and you were asleep by 10.30pm at the latest. Heck, you almost drifted off with Castle's mouth on your…

Yeah, well, something's not right for sure. Maybe you're coming down with something, you wonder to yourself.

"Let's go get some coffee. I could do with a pick-me-up," you tell him, turning around so that he can unzip the dress for you. "Now, outside while I change."

* * *

You shoo him out of the dressing room, giving the owner a little wave and a reassuring smile. Then you begin to disrobe again, wriggling to pull the dress down over your hips. When you're finally standing in just your underwear, you take another look at yourself in the mirror. The dress, for a size 2, is just a little too snug. You shrug, thinking maybe it's the cut of this particular brand. European sizing does tend to run on the small side after all.

"Well, we taking this one?" asks Castle, when you emerge from the dressing room.

"Let's not rush into anything," you tell him, taking his arm and shepherding him out of the shop.

"But the shoes?" he whines, looking over his shoulder at the café-crème stilettoes sitting pertly on the lid of the pretty box.

"Will still be there tomorrow. Come on. I need coffee."

* * *

Starbucks is queued to the door, Coffee Heaven looks like a whole squadron of space-age strollers just descended from Mars, so you walk on a little further until you reach Beanscene – the little independent place with the worn leather armchairs, beat up coffee tables and a good selection of magazines that you discovered a few weeks after moving into the loft.

"The usual?" asks Castle, pulling his wallet out of his back pocket and holding the door open for you.

"I'll get these. You grab us a seat," you tell him, staggering to a halt the second you enter the coffee shop's warm, caffeinated interior.

Castle almost runs into the back of you, managing to stop himself just in the nick of time with a hand on your hip.

"Woah! Okay there?" he asks, sidestepping you and then turning you around to face him.

You're reeling from the aroma of coffee, you realize. It's as if you just buried your head in a vat of the finest Yemeni arabica beans, and this is a smell you would normally relish, breathe in - _deeply_ - like a beautiful perfume. Not today.

"Uh…just thinking. Sorry. Yeah, I'm fine, "you say vaguely, patting Castle's arm. "Usual?" you ask, heading numbly towards the tiny counter.

Feeling too warm again you strip off your leather jacket and quickly turn back to drop it on the chair next to Castle's, before returning to the counter to place your order – one coffee and one peppermint tea.

Your mind is spinning – the dress, your tiredness lately, the coffee smell, your breasts last night when you were making love…

_Oh my god!_

* * *

You take the tray the young man pushes towards you, paying blindly, all the while doing the math, your stomach roiling, your heart suddenly racing, and then you head back over to where Castle is lounging in an armchair by the window, a copy of Details Magazine open in front of him. He staring at an article entitled 'Seven Lust-Worthy Chef's Knives'.

You sink into the empty seat next to him and carefully place the tray down on the coffee table, hoping he doesn't notice that your hands are shaking.

"Okay?" he asks, glancing up at you, his face so relaxed and happy these days, since you worked through the tricky period of transition your lives were in back in May, sat down together and talked things through, honestly, finally owning up to what you wanted from one another, sharing your hopes, opening your hearts.

The light catches your engagement ring through the coffee shop window as you hand him his cup, firing rainbows of light back at the glass.

"Check this out," he says, sliding the magazine towards you, a hint of reverence and childlike wonder in his voice. "Hand-forged from blue _aogami_ super-steel by a Japanese master blacksmith."

You stare at the open page, at the razor sharp chef's knife Castle points out, and suddenly all you can see is a death trap, a lethal weapon, rather than the amazing kitchen gadget your fiancé is coveting.

"We need child proof locks on all the drawers," you blurt, taking a sip of a tea, hoping it will calm you down.

"I think Alexis is old enough…wait?" he says, looking at the teabag string dangling from your porcelain cup, as the paper tab swings back and forth like a pendulum...or a semaphore flag. "What did you just say?"

"Child-proofing. There are knives out on display, Castle, and so many chemicals just sitting under the sink. Oh, and the…"

"Slow down. I know we offered to babysit for the Ryan's. But Jenny hasn't even given birth yet. We have time."

You look at him over the top of your teacup, hiding your quivering smile behind the white, crazed enamel.

"But you're not talking about the Ryan's are you?" he says slowly, sitting up straight in his armchair, calmly placing his coffee cup down on the table in front of him.

You shake your head equally slowly, your smile growing in confidence, your eyes starting to sparkle.

"Kate?" he murmurs softly, inching towards you until he's sitting on the very edge of the seat.

He places a hand on your knee and then takes your teacup from you, setting it on the table beside his own cup with a slight rattle that closely mimics the tremulous fibrillation of your heart. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" he asks, cupping your hand between his own, stroking across the bumpy terrain of your knuckles with his thumb.

"I think so," you reply, blinking rapidly, pressing the fingers of your free hand to your lips, but failing to cover up the smile that's growing underneath. "I…I wasn't sure until we walked in here and…and then the coffee." You shake your head, making little sense you know. "In the changing room, the dress. Castle it was my size by it didn't feel right, and I've been so tired lately and then I started working back. I think I might be pregnant," you whisper, hoarsely.

* * *

He squeezes your hand so suddenly that you flinch at his involuntary reaction.

"Pregnant?" he repeats, looking as if he's about to burst out of his skin with excitement.

You nod vigorously, holding his gaze with eyes that partner up and dance along with his.

"I…I mean we have to take a test, obviously. But…" you laugh, the peel of sound spilling giddily from your lips. "I'm late and I didn't even realize, what with the move and everything."

"That night on your bedroom floor," he grins, stroking your knuckles tenderly once more.

"My pills were back at your place."

"_Our_ place," he corrects, twisting your engagement ring round and round on your finger.

"Oh god, what if I am?"

"What if you are?" he asks, looking about as delighted and excited as you can ever remember seeing him.

"The wedding."

"Shotgun. Seems kind of appropriate, don't you think?" he suggests, tugging on your hand to pull you out of your own chair and settle you in his lap.

"We haven't even set a date and you've knocked me up already," you laugh, rocking back against him.

"Can't help it if I'm so manly and virile," he growls in your ear, making you scrunch up your shoulder and squirm at the tickle that runs down your neck and spine.

"Oh, you are _so_ going to love this, aren't you? Gloating to the guys that we weren't even trying."

"Think you can stop me?"

"Wouldn't waste my breath, hot shot," you fire back.

* * *

You look at one another, thoughts swirling, images appearing and receding, everything you haven't yet talked about rising to the surface to float between you like a film on a pond. But it's light as a feather, the meniscus unbroken.

"We're going to be parents," Castle whispers reverently, placing his hand on your stomach, and it feels warm and heavy and comforting.

"Let's do the test before we get too excited."

"_Are_ you excited? Because I know we didn't quite get this far… But, are you?"

"Are _you?_" you ask, hoping you're guessing correctly how he feels about this.

"I asked first."

"And we said honest from now on, right?"

"Correct. So? On a scale of mildly curious to let's go pick out a stroller, where are you right now. Don't think. Gut reaction, Kate."

You sigh, a happy, contented, on the edge of a clifftop about to hang glide kind of a sigh.

"How soon before we can take a sonogram?" you ask excitedly, looking round to see Castle's face.

"So…pretty excited then?"

You nod, lacing your fingers over his.

"Just a little."

* * *

"I love you," he whispers, as you both catch an old man watching you from a table nearby, Castle's hand pressed to your belly probably a complete giveaway as to the topic of your conversation. The old man smiles and nods in your direction, raising his coffee cup to toast you both, and you duck your head shyly, making to get up and return to your own chair. But Castle holds you back, keeping you nestled in his lap.

"I love you too," you tell him, kissing his cheek and then pressing your lips firmly against his and holding them there. "Let's go to the pharmacy," you tell him, nudging his nose with yours and then kissing him lightly again, your fingers curled around his jaw and ear as you breathe in the scent of him; so male and yours and intoxicating.

"I was going to say home to bed," he chuckles. "But sure. There's a Duane Reade on Broadway and Grand. You go home, run a bath. It'll take me five minutes."

"If you run the entire way," you laugh, poking him in the stomach. "No. I'm coming with you. Rite of passage."

"Buying a pregnancy test?"

"Well, I've never done it before," you tell him, with a slight pout.

"Really?" he asks, sounding both surprised and pleased.

"Yes, really. _What?_ I'm careful," you shrug.

"Not _that_ careful," he leers, kissing your neck and tightening his arms around you to give you a cuddle.

"Maybe I don't mind so much now. Maybe it's time."

"Maybe it is. I'll be happy if it is. And if it isn't…?" he asks, as you stand together, hauling one another up, a kind of inelegant pushing and pulling to get you both out of the deep armchair and back on your feet.

"If it isn't…? I think maybe, if you're game, I'd like to try."

"Really?" he grins, looking as if this was exactly the right answer.

"Really," you nod, taking his hand and leading him out of the coffee shop and back onto the street, your drinks completely forgotten.

* * *

"So, I was thinking," says Castle, taking a deep breath, after you float to the end of the next block in thoughtful silence, fingers laced together, palms kissing, hips, arms and shoulders bumping. "Marriage license from the City Clerk's office over on Worth. Wait the obligatory twenty-four hours. We could be husband and wife by the weekend. What do you say?"

You stop dead in the street and turn to look at Castle. His face is open, but you know that he's expecting you to shoot him down any second. You don't even have the test kit yet, so you don't know if you're pregnant or not. But suddenly that doesn't matter. Being married to this man - this crazy, thoughtful, silly, joyful, impulsive, loving, generous man - is all that matters.

"Yes!" you exclaim, squeezing his hand and then throwing your arms around his neck. "Yes, let's do it."

* * *

_**Coffee,**_ noun: is a moderate brown to dark brown color that is a representation of the color of an unroasted coffee bean. Different types of coffee beans have different colors when unroasted. The color _coffee_ represents an average. The first recorded use of _coffee_ as a color name in English was in 1695. The color _coffee_ implies someone or something that is lively and active, the way one feels from consuming the caffeine in coffee. Cafe au lait and cafe noir are two variations on the color coffee.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it. Liv_


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